All the day long the sun smiled on the garden; but the hours of shadow came out of the East, and their soft wings uncovered the earth.

All the night time the dew-drop looked on the star of its love steadfastly but humbly; for it said 'I am unworthy.' For the dew-drop knew not that pure love maketh noble the heart where it abideth-and the dew-drop knew not that affection is truest life.

But it loved on. All the night time it gazed upward unchangingly,

And many nights shone in Heaven o'er a resting earth; and ever the same did they pass, unto the dew-drop that worshipped the star.

Only the dew-drop was more and more filled with her love -she no more thought of her unworthiness, she had no thought of the perfection of beauty-there was no more fear within her.

Now, from on high, the star had seen the soul of the dewdrop from the first it was bright and clear.

And it saw how the dew-drop was steadfast and true, and the star knew how the power of its love was creating yet more beauty-so that it grew noble, as that which was beloved.

And the star loved the dew-drop, and it was without shame, for its whole being was filled with a devoted affection.

And behold when the dew-drop knew this, a new life seemed burning within her, and around her on the moss shone a pale but blessed light. When the day-light's coming it passes away, but now, ever again at even-tide, it is filled with life and light.

And those that saw her called her a Glow-worm.

GOOD NIGHT.... BY WINTHROP M. PRAED.

Good night to thee, lady!-though many
Have join'd in the dance of to-night,

Thy form was the fairest of any,

Where all was seducing and bright;

Thy smile was the softest and dearest,
Thy form the most sylph-like of all,
And thy voice the most gladsome and clearest
That e'er held a partner in thrall.

Good night to thee, lady!-'t is over,

The waltz, the quadrille and the song-
The whisper'd farewell of the lover,

The heartless adieu of the throng;
The heart that was throbbing with pleasure,
The eye-lid that long'd for repose-
The beaux that were dreaming of treasure,
The girls that were dreaming of beaux.

"T is over-the lights are all dying,
The coaches all driving away;
And many a fair one is sighing,

And many a false one is gay;
And Beauty counts over her numbers

Of conquests, as homeward she drives-
And some are gone home to their slumbers,
And some are gone home to their wives.

And I, while my cab in the shower

Is waiting, the last at the door,
Am looking all round for the flower

That fell from your wreath on the floor.
I'll keep it-if but to remind me,

Though wither'd and faded its hue-
Wherever next season may find me-

Of England-of Almack's-and you!

There are tones that will haunt us, though lonely
Our path be o'er mountain or sea;
There are looks that will part from us only
When memory ceases to be;

There are hopes which our burden can lighten,
Though toilsome and steep be the way;
And dreams that like moonlight can brighten
With a light that is clearer than day.

There are names that we cherish, though nameless,
For aye on the lip they may be;

There are hearts that, though fetter'd, are tameless,
And thoughts unexpress'd, but still free!
And some are too grave for a rover,
And some for a husband too light.

-The ball and my dream are all over-
Good night to thee, lady! good night!

THE FORSAKEN WIFE.
BY JAMES STONEHOUSE.

The summer sun hath set amid
The clouds of radiant gold;
The husbandman hath ceased his toil,
The sheep are in the fold.
The dew of heaven 's falling fast-
The verdant grass is damp;
So softly sighs the summer wind,
It waves not yonder lamp.
That lamp illumes a lovely form,
A lovely woman's face.
Hath not the iron hand of grief

Left there some vivid trace?
See, tears are in her large dark eyes-
Now sparkle down her cheek;
They have no tongue, but oh how plain
Of sorrow do they speak!
She was a happy mother once,

But long those days have fled;
The daisy grows with flowers wild
Above her baby's head.
The little creature drooped away,

Before she well had known
The music of its tottering step,

And voice's cherub tone.
Why weeps she thus, so lone and sad?
Is she not still a wife?

But where is he who swore to love
And cherish her through life?
They have not met nor interchanged
A word for many a day:
Where is he-where? Go seek him
'Midst the wanton and the gay.
Why went he to her father's home,
With manners bland and mild,
To win away the gentle heart

Of a young and happy child?]
Before she knew what 't was to love,
Her days passed swiftly by;
Her life was one untroubled dream,
Without a tear or sigh.

She sported 'mid the flowers,
Like a butterfly or bird;
The notes of sorrow or of pain
By her were all unheard;
And she has gamboll'd thro' the woods,
And o'er the smiling lawns-
Her fairy footsteps seem'd as fleet
And agile as a fawn's.

The tresses of her raven hair

Would fall without a check,
And cluster in luxuriant curls
About her ivory neck.
How bright and sparkling were her eyes!
Her cheek how heavenly fair!
What mirth was in her jocund laugh!
What innocence was there!

The matron's cap each long dark lock
Now bound unheeded, hides.
Ah! little would you deem that there
Are gray ones bound inside!
Those eyes are still both large and full;
But, oh! their lustre 's fled-
No flower's glowing tint revives
Whene'er the stem is dead.
And will she linger thus thro' life,
And mix not in the throng-
Nor strive to tell the busy world

Of every slight and wrong?
No! for within her heart is still

A love that fain would feel, Since others cannot make amends,

His faults she should conceal.
Oh! droop not, then, most lovely one;
Perchance the hour is nigh
When tears shall all give way to smiles-
The laugh succeed the sigh.

He may come back an altered man,
When youthful folly 's sped:
His failings are not faults of heart,
But errors of the head.

45

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side,
On a bright May mornin', long ago,
When first you were my bride:
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high,
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.
The place is little changed, Mary;
The day is bright as then;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,

And the corn is green again:
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek,
And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You never more may speak.

'T is but a step down yonder lane,

And the little church stands near

The church where we were wed, Mary—
I see the spire from here;

But the grave-yard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest;
For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep,
With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends;
But, oh! they love the better still

The few our Father sends!

And you were all I had Mary--
My blessin' and my pride:

There's nothin' left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died!

Yours was the good brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arms' young strength was gone.
There was comfort ever on your lip,

And the kind look on your brow:
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you can't hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile,
When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there,
And you hid it, for my sake!
I bless you for the pleasant word,

When your heart was sad and sore;
Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more.
I'm biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary-kind and true!

But I'll not forget you, darlin'
In the land I'm goin' to;

They say there's bread and work for all
And the sun shines always there;
But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods

I'll sit, and shut my eyes,

And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat side by side,

And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn,
When first you were my bride!

NEWSPAPER READERS.-The tastes of the readers of a newspaper are sufficiently various and singular. One reads nothing but the poet's corner; another considers poetry, and all that sort of stuff, horrid trash. One deems politics the only business of life; another votes that department a bore. This one reads only the deaths and marriages, and that one looks only to the advertisements. There are various other idiosyncracies too numerous to mention; but certainly the most singular one we ever heard of was the case of the lady who was obliged to consult the celebrated Abernethy, because "for several mornings past she had not been able to relish her murders."

TO AN EOLIAN HARP.

BY KENYON.

Oh! breezy harp! that, with thy fond complaining,
Hast held my willing ear this whole night long:
Mourning, as one might deem, yon moon, slow waning,
Sole listener oft of thy melodious song;

Sweet harp! if hushed awhile thy tuneful sorrow,
Which may not flow unintermitted still,

A lover's prayer one strain less sad might borrow
Of all thou pourest at thine own sweet will.
Now, when her forehead in that pale moon gleaming-
Yon dark-tressed maid beneath the softening hour,
As fain to lose no touch of thy sad streaming,

Lean to the night from forth her latticed bower;
And the low whispering air, and thy lone ditty,
Around her heart their mingled spells have wove;
Now cease those notes awhile that plain for pity,
And wake thy bolder song, and ask for love.

THE PRINTER'S DEVIL.

BY DOUGLAS JERROLD.

The Printer's Devil! There is much romance in the name -nay, much that takes us back to the stern realities of bygone centuries; when ignorance, and its attendant ministers, craft and violence and cruelty, sat in the high places of the world, and the awakening intelligence of man was anathematised and scourged as the evil promptings of the fiend, and the day-spring of moral light was accounted as the 'pale reflex' of the eter nal fires. Hence, the printer became a wizard and a magician; hence, he had a familiar; hence-the Printer's Devil! In the day of darkness, in the hour of superstition, was our subject christened; it is now nearly four hundred years ago since he was baptized; and though his name was given him as a brand, great and mighty indeed were they who stood his sponsors. He had among them cardinals and mitred abbots; nobles and richest citizens. They took counsel together, and called the goodly creature-Devil. Hence, he was to be seized, and bound and burned to ashes; amid the chanting of priests, and the swinging of censers, and the aspersions of much holy

water!

And is it possible-some reader may ask-that little Peter Trampington, Printer's Devil at the office of Vizetelly & Co., at the full salary of five or six shillings per week-is it possi ble that Peter can have had an origin so wonderful, so perilous? Yes, believe it; the Printer's Devil, though now a household servant-though now he run like a Robin Goodfellow from office to author, and from author to office; though now he wait meekly for copy, or contentedly sleep away the time of composition, tarrying some three or four hours for the chapter or essay that is just done '-even Peter, in the fif teenth century, might have had the singeing honors of an auto da fè; might have enjoyed a faggot from the same bundle as his master.

It is pleasant, passing pleasant, in these times, to look back upon the perils of the printer, seeing him as he now is, crowned with a thousand triumphs. We can, almost with complacency, enjoy the predicament of John Faust, goldsmith of Mentz, offering in the pious city of Paris, his printed bibles at five and six hundred crowns a-piece; and then, suddenly abating his demand, tendering them at the remarkably low price of sixty. The scribes take the alarm. The devil must be bondman to the printer. The books are curiously scanned, and it is manifest as trath, the uniformity of the copies declares the workmanship, or at least the co-assistance of Beelzebub himself. (A great reflection this on the legendary acuteness of the devil, that he should be so forgetful of his own interests as to manufacture cheap bibles: but so it is; ignorance and persecution are prone to such false compliments). Well! great is the uproar in Paris; the scribes, be sure of it-the ingenious, induɛtrious men who copy bibles-very disinterestedly joining in the outcry. Faust is discovered-many bibles found at his lodg ings; some of the books printed in his blood; a horrible fact, shown beyond all doubt in the red ink by which they are embellished; and loud and unanimous is the cry for fire and faggot to consume the magician. The wizard is flung inte prison; and, to escape roasting alive as one in fealty to the fiend, he makes known his secret to the admiration of the world, and especially to the wonder and thanksgiving of the simple church. Alas! little did her fat and rubicund children, feeding quietly in her cells like worms in nuts, little did they suspect the mischief hidden in the discovery. Little thought they that the

first creaking of Gutenburg's rude printing-press was, in the fullness of time, to be the knell of craft and ignorance. At that sound, had the monks had eyes, they might have beheld their saints turn pale and wince; they might have heard old, profitable, penny-turning relics shake and rattle; and—

'In urns and altars round

A drear and dying sound.'

At the moment Gutenburg pulled his first proof (the historian of the popes has very disingenuously avoided the fact) the Pope was fast in his first sleep; but suddenly his holiness awoke with a bounce, and for at least five seconds wondered if he were the Infallible or not. Strange! it may be thought, that a little creaking at Mentz should make itself so very audible at Rome! Our present purpose, however, is not to follow the Printer's Devil through all the windings of four centuries; but to speak of him as he is at the present day, after many and great mutations. That he gained his name as a reproach, in an age of darkness, is incontrovertible; many very respectable, tax-paying people in France dying in the faith that, though Faustus had cleared himself with the too easy civic authorities, the devil must have had a finger in the printing, for all that. Hence, the Devil and Doctor Faustus became household words: and the Printer's Devil, though now philosophically received as a creature of light, survives to these times. The Printer's Devil of our day is the humblest flamen at the shrine of the press. We would, did our too circumstantial conscience permit us, suppress all public knowledge of the fact; but the Printer's Devil of the nineteenth century is, in the social scale, estimated at very little above the errand-boy. Thus, do length of days and familiar intercourse vulgarise the mysterious-make common-place the most dear. A youth running with a proof from the press, of Gutenburg, or Caxton, or Wynkyn de Worde, was, so to speak, a messenger of state; the bearer of a miracle of art; the part and parcel of a mysterious body, sworn to maintain the secrets of their craft. Then, indeed, the Devil was somebody to be respected; and now is he-Peter Trampington, aged nine.

The Printer's Devil, however, of these days has one great advantage over the Devil of forty years ago. In his visits for copy—and believe it, reader, the calls of the Devil are any thing but

'Angels' visits, few and far between,' but daily; sometimes, if the publisher be a sanguine man, hourly,in these, his unremitting visits upon authors, the Printer's Devil has not, like the devils of a bygone generation, to mount so many pair of stairs. Authors have, it must be confessed, come down a little: once the Devil had to climb for them to the top of the homestead; and now, such is the progress of things, authors may be said to meet the Devil halfway. This is as it should be.

In the printing-office, the Devil is a drudge; yea, 'a young and sweating devil.' There is no employment too dirty for him-no weight too heavy for his strength-no distance too far for him to walk; no, not walk, but run, or fly; for it is an axiom, that the Printer's Devil is never to walk-he is always

to make haste: no matter how; he is to make haste.' 'so eagerly the fiend

O'er bog, o'er steep, through strait, rough, dense, or rare, With head, hands, wings or feet, pursues his way; And swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies.' And the conscientious, pains-taking Printer's Devil, on an errand for copy, is expected to emulate the indefinite action of the father-fiend. The vulgar errand-boy may saunter on the road; but the intelligent Devil-he who fetches and carries precious thoughts-he, the light porter to the brain-the gobetween of author and the press-he may not lounge and tarry like a common messenger; but, insensibly impressed by the consequence of his calling, by the wealth of which he is the depositary, he, in his motion to and fro, must approach as near to flying as is permitted to the human anatomy.

The extraordinary probity of Printers' Devils-like many other virtues of the humble-has not been sufficiently wondered at. Be it our task to awaken the attention of the world to at once the beautiful confidence in human nature as daily illustrated in the literary character, and to the surpassing rectitude of Devils in general.

That the riches of the mind outvalue, to an inconceivable degree, all tangible wealth, whether in gems or metals, is a truth preached from a thousand pulpits-a truth we emblazon in our copy-books-a truth that even men of ten, twenty, forty thousand a-year are in a condition to very placidly admit. How often, if we search the archives of the police, shall we

find goldsmiths' porters-jewellers' shopmen-nay, the clerks of banks-how often shall we find them wanting! Plate has been stolen-diamonds carried off-moneys embezzled; yes, men in trust have succumbed to the blandishments of the baser wealth, and become naught. But when-and we put the question with a thrill of triumph at our heart-when was a Printer's Devil ever known to embezzle his copy? When did he ever attempt to turn an article into money, and escape to France or America with the fruits of his wickedness? We answer for him-never. We call upon all the police magistrates, the Lord Mayor, all the aldermen, and with them of course Mr. Hobler-we call upon these gentlemen to confound us if they can. No: our Printer's Devil, intrusted as he hourly is with valuables to which the regalia of the Tower-whatever Mr. Swift, the keeper of the same, may say to the contraryare as paste and foil-stones; made the bearer of thoughts more brilliant and durable than virgin gold; a carrier of little packets outvaluing the entrails of Golconda; nay, single sheets, to which all the Mogul's dominions are, at least in the opinion of one man, as a few unprofitable mole-hills; the Devil, freighted with this inconceivable treasure, despatched trustingly by its producer with this immortal wealth, goes unerringly to his destination, and with the innocence of a dove, and the meekness of a lamb, gives up his precious burden. He never betrays his trust, not he. The Printer's Devil takes not the mental gold to unlawful crucible-offers not the precious paper to the felonious money-changer-seeks no loan upon the copy from the pawnbroker; but with a fine rectitude, with a noble simplicity of purpose, gives up the treasure to the hand ap pointed to receive it, as though it were rags or dirt. The oys ter that breeds a union for the crown of an emperor, is not more unpresuming on its wealth than is the Printer's Devil on his costlier copy.

And now, gentle reader, does not the Printer's Devil present himself to your admiring imagination, despite his inkstained hands and face, in colors of the brightest radiance?Jostled in the street, or, it may be, triflingly bespattered by mud from his mercurial heels, how little do you dream that the offending urchin, the hurrying Devil, has about him 'something dangerous.' You know it not; but, innocent, mirthful as he ling, jumping like a young satyr, and is withal the Devil to a seems, he is loaded with copy. He may be rushing, gambolnewspaper. His looks are the looks of merriment; yet the pockets of his corduroy trowsers may be charged with thunderbolts. He would not hurt a mouse; and in his jacket slumbers lightning to destroy a ministry. Perhaps, for the whole Mint, he could not compass a sum in addition; and ye', it rests with his integrity whether to-morrow morning the nation shall be saved from bankruptcy; for, deposited in his cap, is an elaborate essay addressed to the ingenuous traders in the Money Market; an essay setting forth principles which, if adopted, shall in one fortnight transform beggared England into El Dorado. If the Printer's Devils, as a body, knew their strength, what darkness might they for a time bring upon the world! A conspiracy among the gas-men would be matter for a jest, compared to the Cimmerian gloom produced by Printers' Devils, sworn to a simultaneous destruction of copy! We own, this is a dangerous suggestion; but, had we not a great faith in the natural goodness of our Devils, we might assure ourselves in their want of combination. Besides, it is just possible that the Devil may bear copy as a bishop's horse may bear his master; without for one moment suspecting the wisdom, the learning, the piety, the charity and loving-kindness to all men, that he carries. We say, this is possible.

We trust, however, that we have uttered sufficient to obtain for our Devil respectful consideration in his street pilgrimages, should the reader, by the smutched face, the very dirty hands, the air of literary slovenliness about his wardrobe, and withal by a certain quickness of expression, a shrewdness of face, detect the fiend; for, indeed, he has all these marks. The true Printer's Devil is, after all, a very superior drudge. It would be unseemly in us to insist, that his constant intercourse with a certain class of individuals, whets his spirit, and endues him with a peculiar look of intelligence; but so it is; the Devil, especially the newspaper Devil, is as distinct an animal from the mere errand-boy, as is the wild ass of the desert from the ass of the sandman. Hence, should the reader meet with him, we crave for our Devil, by the virtue of what he may carry, respectful consideration. Consider it: are there not some Printer's Devils, nameless though they be, who may be considered almost classic? The Devil, for instance, who carried the proofs of the 'Vicar of Wakefield' to Goldsmith; who, we will be sworn for him, rewarded his inky messenger with

VOL. I.

No. 2.

MEMOIR OF MRS. ANNA JAMESON. The readers of the New World will be gratified to learn something concerning the history and productions of the gifted lady, whose latest work we now have the pleasure to lay before them. The first volume complete is presented in this number of the Evergreen; the second shall appear in a subsequent number. The whole work, though some time in the press in England, has not yet been published there; nor do we believe that it will be given to the British public until spring. Our edition will, therefore, anticipate the first appearance in volumes of ' Social Life in Germany.'

ANNA JAMESON-whose name shines bright amid the constellation of the female authors who have illustrated the present age, and whose elegance of style, refinement of taste and thought, and correctness of principle have raised her to a high rank among modern English writers-is the daughter of an artist of much celebrity and merit. He is an Irishman by birth, but has resided for many years in Londen or its vicinity; he formerly held the appointment of 'Miniature-Painter to the King.'

The genius and talents of the daughter had revealed them selves at an early age to her parents and their intimate friends. But it was not until the publication of a work relative to his art, undertaken by her father at the command of the sove reign, that she became known to the public. We shall at once be understood to allude to the Beauties of the Court of Charles the Second,' the letter-press of which, contributed by our authoress, illuminates the productions of Van Dyck and Lely, with a chaster light than those subjects had ever before received, or were deemed ever capable of receiving.

Encouraged by the success of this first essay, Miss Murphy, who had now become Mrs. Jameson, again ventured upon the perils of authorship as she had encountered those attendant upon matrimony. The publication of her 'Female Soveregns' was followed by the Diary of an Ennuyée' and some other works of minor importance, until her literary reputation became established by that decisive and attractive specimen of her genius, taste and critical discrimination, the Characteristics of Women.' The work, from the perfect knowledge and appreciation it exhibited of the Great Dramatist and the graceful facility with which it enters into and unveils his spirit, at once eclipsed not only the polished criticism of Mrs. Montague and the more elaborate analysis of Professor Richardson, but cast also into the shade the whole galaxy of commentators who revolve like satellites about the sun of Shakspere, and shone from his reflected rays, instead of illuminating the world by any light of their own.

But mere criticism was not the object of Mrs. Jameson. She had a loftier end in view. It was not so much to illustrate the characters of Shakspere as to elevate and vindicate that of her own sex. This high purpose, or rather the means by which she aims to accomplish it, distinguishes Mrs. Jameson both from her predecessors and her cotemporaries; and for this she may be emphatically proclaimed the champion of her sex; not as asserting for them rights incompatible with their physical qualities and morally inconsistent with the female character, but by inculcating those appropriate duties and cultivating those feminine virtues which render woman more usefully beneficent, and give her a more effectual influence in her proper sphere, without trespassing beyond those bounds which her intuitive delicacy of sentiment and natural fragility of structure prescribe. In the attainment of this hallowed end-in imparting higher and juster views of the dignity and responsibilities of her sex, we believe Mrs. Jameson to have been more successful than the whole epicene tribe from Mary Woolstencraft down (in the descent of time only, we mean,) to Harriet Martineau; and from the course she adopted, we believe her to have contributed materially to improve, not only the condition of women, but the characters of men also, by rendering the former objects of greater interest and consideration to the latter, as intellectual as well as religieus, moral and social helpmeets.

The next most fascinating production of our authoress, was her "Winters Studies and Summer Rambles," too well known and too justly appreciated on this side of the Atlantic, to require any other remarks than that it bears the stamp of that truly feminine delicacy and tact, which is not only characteristic of her sex, but among her sex, of herself. We pass, therefore, at once to her last literary work which we are enabled to present to our readers, not only before the piratical re-publication of it in this country, which would probably otherwise have attended it, but even before its actual publication in Eng

land.

Some explanation may be thought due from us, concerning our motives in thus having prevented the re-publication of the work in its usual form, by American publishers, who might have extended to Mrs. Jameson some compensation for its sale in this country. We state, therefore, that the work did not come into our hands until several attempts had been made to effect an arrangement like that to which we have alluded. The principal publishers in this city and Philadelphia, declined it, on the general plea of "hard times." So far as mere interest goes, they were undoubtedly right in doing so: for as long as they can obtain quantities of popular English works for the simple cost of copies, why should they expend a doit in remunerating English authors? No man of business will buy one article when he can procure another just as good-and, may be, in his estimation, a little better-for nothing. Moreover, the work had been announced as in press by a house in Philadelphia, although the copy from which we now print, is the only one (it is partly in manuscript, partly in printed sheets) which has reached this country.

We feel confident that this publication will gain the authoress as much celebrity in America as she now enjoys in Great Britain in consequence of Professor Wilson's celebrated articles in Blackwood on her "Characteristics of Women;" for the people of this country possess that degree of intelligence and good taste, which enables them both to discover and appreciate genius and talent, when it is brought to their attention. They will not inquire coldly concerning the worth in money of such a work as "Social Life in Germany," but welcome it with kindness and enthusiasm, and give the writer a place in their memories and affections.

Ceasing this apparent but nevertheless relevant digression, we cannot resist the inclination which on this occasion impels us to prefix some further notice of Mrs. Jameson's personal history, even at the hazard of wounding that delicacy, the observance of which Mrs. Jameson not only inculcates upon others, but practically exhibits in her own conduct. From that very sensitiveness, however, to any exposition of matters of strictly private concern, and in which the public have generally less interest than curiosity, arises the justification, if not the necessity, of entering more freely into the private history of Mrs. Jameson. We shall nevertheless venture no further into the sanctuary than the sincerest veneration for the Prestess will permit; and while we profess to have no mysteries to re veal, we shall not remove the veil from rites which her religion consecrates.

We have already mentioned the marriage of Mrs. Jameson, und hinted that it was unfortunate. It was not so, however, from any fault of hers; neither do we mean to impute blame to her husband. With the causes that rendered their union unhappy, the public and ourselves have no concern, since no criminality is alleged against either party. Its termination, however, so far as it may affect the character of the female, is, in cases of this kind, a fair and proper subject of inquiry.— Mr. Jameson was at the time of his marriage a barrister of espectable standing, and obtained soon afterward a law appointment in one of the neighboring Colonies of Great Britain, and has since been promoted to a high judical office in Upper Canada. Before he left England a voluntary separation be tween him and his lady had taken place, under circumstances which did not in the least diminish the estimation, in which